Swan Song
by Caesaris
Summary: He loved her. And they made him kill her.


**Author's Note**: A story in snippets of Cullen's first Harrowing. Partially inspired by _The Kingdom of Heaven _and Oscar Wilde's _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_. Bioware owns Dragon Age. OC and the lyrics are mine. Feedback is appreciated.

Swan Song

Night watch is by far the worst. No one wants it, so they give it to him, because he's the youngest. Cullen doesn't mind. Few mages roam about in the dead of night and this suits him just fine.

He is guarding the library when she wanders in just before dawn. The first time he sees her, he is struck by the silver splint mail mask she wears on her face. The first thing everyone sees when they look at her.

Cullen has heard of the rumours. Some say she is Urzara reborn, whose beauty is so dazzling that any man who looks upon her falls dead at her feet. Some say she is a monstrosity, that the mask she wears hides a deformed lump of flesh that cannot even be called a face. The silver mask covers every inch of her face except for her eyes, deep and blue as the waters of Lake Calenhad.

The second thing he notices about her is that she is not wearing any shoes. Cullen isn't sure what to make of this, so he stares.

She peruses the shelves and after a while, pulls down a book and makes her way across the room. The silence of the library is broken by the pitter-patter of her feet on stone tiles. She does not look at him.

* * *

She returns the following night, and the night after. He notes that she's still not wearing shoes.

In time, her visits become routine. A comfortable silence settles over them. She reads, and he watches her. Not a word is exchanged between them. Mages and Templars do not fraternize. He knows this as well as she.

"Are you bored?" she looks up and asks one night. He stares at her in shock. He thinks he is imagining the whole thing. There's a hint of laughter in her eyes as she looks at him. She closes her book and clasps her hands together.

"Can you not speak," she asks, "or do you not wish to speak?"

He does not answer, stunned by the sound of her voice. A strand of flaxen hair has fallen haphazardly over the forehead of her mask.

"Very well, then," she shrugs. "Would you like me to read to you?" she holds up the book she's been studying. "It's very interesting. The author thinks when we die, we all become mice."

"That's ridiculous," he hears himself saying. She looks pleased to have coaxed a few words from him.

"Ah, so you do speak, Templar," says she. He imagines she's smiling beneath her mask.

Slender fingers lift open the cover of the book with care. She turns to the first page and begins reading, "In the founding days of the Tevinter Imperium…"

* * *

He learns that her name is Isadora. She is eighteen and she has lived in the Circle for most of her life. She's from Kirkwall, and has recently moved here by order of First Enchanter Orsino. She's to undergo her Harrowing before the year's end.

He's curious, but he does not ask her about her mask, and she pretends not to notice his pointed stares.

Tonight, she's reading from _The Complete Treatise on the Healing Properties of Elfroot _by Arius Elvan. He's not paying attention to the words, but to the sound of her voice, calm and melodious, like waves lapping against the shore.

"Do you sing?" he interrupts her suddenly. She looks up from the book, bewildered by his question.

"It's just that you have a very nice voice," he blurts out. He feels a flush spread across his cheeks.

She seems amused.

"I suppose I do know a song or two," she says. "Ah, perhaps you've heard of this one, the Lament of Isolde as she bids farewell to Belenus."

He shakes his head.

"Then I shall sing it to you. It's very famous story in the village where I was born. It's about a princess and her knight."

She tilts her head back and closes her eyes. In the flickering candlelight, her mask is a lovely and terrifying sight. She begins in a shaky voice, soft and breathless, like the rustle of leaves. It grows stronger as she continues. Cullen feels like he's drowning.

_Farewell, my love,_

_The road is long._

_All shadows pass,_

_As sure as the dawn._

_I do not weep_

_For I know come spring,_

_The larks shall sing,_

_Of your return._

_Farewell, my love,_

_My eyes grow dim._

_The blue birds herald,_

_A golden sun._

_I leave no regret,_

_For I have glimpsed,_

_That bittersweet thing,_

_They call love._

Her voice falters and she looks sad. He wants to comfort her, but he cannot.

"What happened to her? To the princess?" he asks softly.

"She died," she casts her eyes downward. "The war dragged on and Belenus never returned. Her beauty aroused the interest of neighbouring king. Rather than to submit to his advances, she killed herself. It's not a very happy story. I'm sorry."

A silence descends upon the room. She looks wistful. For what seems like an eternity, neither of them speaks.

"He should've been there to protect her," he says to her finally, breaking the damning stillness.

In the dim light, her gaze is unfathomable. "I don't think you can protect a person forever."

She gets up to leave. He reaches out and gently touches her hand. He does not know what has gotten into him to make him do such a thing. She looks up at him, her blue eyes wide with surprise. It only lasts a moment, and then they remember their place.

* * *

Templars do not fraternize with Mages. They do not fall in love with them. When Knight-Commander Greagoir calls him into his study, Cullen is terrified that he has been found out. He stands there, unmoving and sweating profusely. If Greagoir suspects something, he does not outright say it.

"You've been with us for a year now."

He nods weakly. The Knight-Commander offers him a seat. Cullen is thankful for the gesture.

"I was pleased by your composure at the Harrowing last month," says Greagoir, "It was your first Harrowing, yes?"

"That's correct, Knight-Commander."

"You conducted yourself well, even though our…intervention was ultimately not needed."

"Thank you, Knight-Commander."

The older man gives him an approving look.

"There's to be another Harrowing in a week's time," says Greagoir, "I want you to be there."

Cullens suddenly feels sick. She has told him that…

"And should the need arises," Greagoir continues, "I want you to deliver the killing blow. Are you prepared to do that?"

He clenches the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles turn white. It is cruel to ask that of him, Cullen wants to scream at Greagoir. Why her? Of all people. And why him?

But he doesn't say any of that.

"Yes, Knight-Commander."

Greagoir dismisses him. Finding the nearest stairwell, Cullen throws up.

* * *

She's uncharacteristically cheerful the night before her Harrowing. The library echoes with her silvery laughter. Though she jests and puts on a brave face, he sees fear in her eyes. Cullen feels compelled to tell her the truth.

"I'll be at the Harrowing tomorrow," he says, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Her laughter ceases. He watches her eyes darken with understanding.

"I see," she looks at him, "we all do what we must, I suppose."

She moves towards him, her footsteps light and inviting. She's standing so close to him that he can breathe in her scent.

Lavender.

"You've kept your curiosity to yourself very well," she says, "would you like to see?"

There's a sadness in her eyes as she says this. He traces his fingers over the smooth veneer of her mask.

"Yes."

She reaches behind and unfastens the string that secures the mask. Unsteadily, she removes it with both hands.

His breathing stills.

Her face is a forest of scars and gnarled flesh. Swollen ridges cover her cheeks, jaw, and chin, making a mockery of the smooth ivory flesh at her neck.

"Does it satisfy your curiosity?" she smiles morbidly.

As if encouraged by his silence, she continues, "There was a fire when I was nine. I survived, but my mother was not so lucky. My father made me this mask," she holds up the silver metal, "he loved me, but he couldn't stand to look at me."

"Do you think me beautiful?" she asks him. "Am I Urzara reborn?"

"No," he finally says, "you're not beautiful." There's a glint of triumph in her eyes, as if for the first time, someone has confirmed to her what she knows all along.

"But this doesn't change anything," he tells her firmly and places a gentle kiss upon her forehead. He feels a sob wrack through her body. She puts on her mask again. Tears shine in her blue eyes.

"I know you won't fail," he tells her before they part, "I know."

* * *

Her eyelids flutter, but she does not stir. She cannot wake until she has passed the test. He's standing over her, with his hand on the pommel of his sword. Time is measured in Irving's sighs and the restless tapping of Greagoir's foot.

Please, please, he pleads with her in his mind, just come back. Please come back.

"It's been too long," says Greagoir.

The First Enchanter does not answer. There's sadness and resignation in his haggard features.

"She needs more time," Cullen says desperately. They all turn to look at him. He expects a sharp reprimand from Greagoir, but there's only pity in the Knight-Commander's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Cullen," Greagoir shakes his head. "You know what you have to do."

He hesitates as he looks at her.

Wake up, wake up, he's screaming in his head, you have to come back now.

"Draw your sword, Templar," Greagoir commands him.

Cullen draws his sword with shaky hands and poises it over her. He's staring into an unfathomable mask. She is still, silent and unmoving. He lets the weight of the sword guide his hands as he plunges the cold steel into her heart. She does not stir.

* * *

Greagoir finds him after the Harrowing, sitting alone in the library. He places a heavy hand on Cullen's shoulder.

"There'll be many others like her, Cullen. Don't let sentiment get in the way of duty. it will destroy you."

The library feels empty without her presence. He does not like to go there. In his mind, he knows Greagoir is right. She is not the first, and she will not be the last. He tries to forget her. Sometimes, he succeeds.

But just sometimes, in the dead of night when he cannot sleep, he thinks he hears her sing.

_Farewell, my love._

_Keep me in your heart._

_May the Maker guide you,_

_Where I cannot._

_In the darkest valley,_

_Beyond the stars,_

_When your steps falter,_

_May he light your path._


End file.
